Have you ever woken up in the middle of the night with a thought you can’t put aside? Maybe it’s something important you can’t forget to do tomorrow, or that one-in-million, amazing entrepreneurial idea that’s going to change your life, and then you fall back to sleep? That’s what usually happens to me, but occasionally I’m organised and lucid enough to grab my phone and stab a note into the blinding screen in the darkness. I did this recently, and ended up with most of a poem. Really, I don’t know if it’s a poem because I know nothing about poetry and doubt I have written a poem since primary school. Whenever I write the word “poem” it looks wrong, too. That’s got to be a sign. In my mind, poems have rules and stuff, so perhaps I should call it an “outpouring”.
I’m sure the poetry fervour was awoken by watching Kris Hallenga’s inspiring documentary Dying to Live, which I encouraged you all to watch a few weeks back. She mentioned within that cancer was her boss, which I can wholeheartedly relate to. Like Kris, my feelings towards my cancer are not exactly positive. I’m not angry with it, and I would prefer not to have it but it does creep into a world of favourable nouns occasionally.
My ball and chain
My referee and scorekeeper
My sadist monarch
I am it’s minion. The most compliant subject of the least benevolent ruler, cancer.
It has also come to be,
My actuality, but not my existence and will never be my legacy.